"Mad! Why, ma, you mustn't ask me a—a thing like that; it just kills me to hear you. Me that's not even fit to black your shoes! Mad at you? Why, I—I—Good night—good—night—ma."
* * * * *
At just fifteen minutes before seven, to the pungency of coffee and the harsh sing of water across the hall, Mrs. Lipkind in a fuzzy wrapper the color of her eyes and hair, kissed her son awake.
"Sam! Sammy! Get up! Thu, thu! I can't get him up in the morning!"
The snuggle away and into the crotch of his elbow.
"Sam-my—quarter to seven!"
He sprang up then, haggard, but in a flood of recollection and remorse. "Ma, I must 'a' dropped off at the last minute. You all right? What are you doing up? Go right back! Didn't I tell you not to get up?"
"I been up an hour already; that's how fine I feel. Get up, Sammy; it's late."
He flung on his robe, trying to withdraw her from the business of looping back the bed-clothing over the footboard and pounding into the pillows.
"I tell you I won't have it! You got to lay in bed this morning."